Five Ways Out of Hell
by sydedalus
Summary: House’s five ways out of hell following “Need to Know.” Couldn’t keep my paws off this one. Angst, self destructive behavior.
1. Alcohol

**Title: **Five Ways Out of Hell  
**Author: **sy dedalus  
**Rating: **T  
**Pairing:** House/broken heart  
**Spoilers: **"Need to Know"  
**Warnings: **Drinking, sex with strangers, general Housian masochism  
**Summary: **House's five ways out of hell following "Need to Know." Couldn't keep my paws off this one.  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

A series of five vignettes detailing House's way of dealing with the Stacy debacle. I couldn't leave well enough alone.

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**1: Alcohol**

What was it about Stacy and February that always led to bad things?

House began counting them on his fingers.

One. Regret was a dish best served cold. Or something.

Two. It was cold outside. They spent too much time inside. Too much time together always led to a fight. Fights always led to great sex.

Wait. Great sex was good. What was he thinking…?

Oh. Too much time together. Now he had it. Too much time together _not_ having great sex. That was it. The whole communication thing.

"_Please, Greg."_

_God, she was crying. He never thought he'd see her cry. Her understood a few tears when she told him about her decision, but no more after that. She wasn't the type. She didn't beg either. But her hands were clasped together in supplication and her mascara was running. _

"_Please, Greg. Talk to me. Please." _

I hate you.

"_Please. Anything. If you're angry, if you're hurt, sad, depressed, whatever. You want to…do you want to hit me? Just say that you do. You can. It's okay. Please, God. Say something. Say anything."_

Yes, I want to hit you.

_She brought her hands up to her chin and did that thumb-nail biting gesture that annoyed the hell out of him. _

If you're gonna pray, go pray. Go be something you're not. Go break your promises. See if I care. God's as good a dupe as anyone else.

_He turned his head. She'd turned the television off, but a black screen was easier to look at, even if he could see her reflection convexing off the surface_.

"_Please."_

Memories. He didn't need them.

He waved the bar tender over for a tequila refill. It had taken her three shots to recognize a man in pain and leave the salt and lemons with him. Must be new. She wasn't earning whatever tip he'd leave. All his fault for choosing the trendy new bar that attracted all the adult singles. But it was close to the hospital—hugging a motorcycle wasn't great for his damn leg after several flights of stairs and over an hour in the February pre-dawn and twilight…she'd loved it, speeding back to his place, clutching his chest and laughing through the helmet in his ear…she was a closet biker chick and they both knew it…besides, she looked _great_ in black leather—no.

He wouldn't take the bike home tonight. Maybe he'd put it away for a while, drive the vette again. She must be lusting for his attention by now. But she could wait another day. Tonight he was going to someone else's home in a taxi.

He'd missed out on this part of it last time, but he remembered what to do and how to do it. Play up the doctor angle. Play up the cane angle. Play up the lost love angle. His shirt was suitably wrinkled. He was suitably scruffy. The jeans he was wearing were suitably tight and he knew how to arrange himself to make them like what they saw. He could do this. He was good at doing this.

Lick the salt. Down the shot. Bite the lemon.

There. Four. Two more and he'd be ready.

He called the bartender back and ordered a vodka martini for the brunette in the corner who'd arrived five minutes ago and had sent a few looks his way. She was wearing too much make-up. She looked garish. But she was also his age, trying hard to look ten years younger just like he was trying hard to look heartbroken. He knew what garish make-up on a forty-year-old woman in a trendy singles bar meant. He knew that if he sat up straighter and put on the right expression, she'd know why he sent her that particular drink. Stacy did say he resembled 007 on his good days—when he was packing heat.

No. Stacy said nothing. Shut up, Stacy.

He pretended not to pay attention when the bartender served her. Eyes forward. He waited, counting slowly, then glanced over when he'd reached fifteen. Lipstick on the glass. Her dead-on seductive gaze as she closed lips around the olive.

Yes.


	2. Cheap Sex

**Title: **Five Ways Out of Hell  
**Author: **sy dedalus  
**Rating: **T  
**Pairing:** House/broken heart  
**Warnings: **Drinking, sex with strangers, general Housian masochism  
**Summary: **House's five ways out of hell following "Need to Know." Couldn't keep my paws off this one.  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks for the reviews! Yay!

**Warning: **Illicit drug use on House's part in this chapter, but nothing the show hasn't already suggested. Also, a good deal of sexual innuendo, but everything should be within the T rating.

* * *

**2: Cheap Sex**

She didn't ask about the leg, except to admire his cane while he undressed, and he didn't ask about the cocaine, except to decline when she offered him a line from the bathroom.

She demanded rough sex and he didn't decline, eager to nip and bite and pound, pleased to hear her scream with pleasure, pleased to hear himself screaming.

She talked dirty to him and he talked dirty back, breathing all the harsh, forbidden words he knew into her ear.

She demanded two rounds and he happily obliged. He was no slouch. Not with tequila in him.

But when the combined forces of tequila, Vicodin, age, being out of practice, and the even greater demand Stacy had had the night before put him to sleep after the second romp, she slapped him awake.

"You gotta go if you're gonna sleep."

He grunted and sat up.

She made advances to his cane while he dressed. He asked her to have the decency to Saran wrap herself first. He had some idea where she'd been.

She was high, titling and whirling around the room, but she took affront. She called him a cripple, said he was so small she hadn't even felt it, said she'd been faking the whole time. She suggested he get some Viagra before he tried doing this again. Limp men didn't do it for her. Neither did men with limps.

He told her she was as loose and dry as a five dollar whore, and that the condom did more for him than she did.

She threw his cane at him and screamed, "Get out!"

He made a choice remark about her personal hygiene and left gladly, tripping down the stairs as the mean side of tequila kicked into overdrive.

He vomited next to a dumpster in the alley, took a moment to catch his breath, and sat down on the fire escape. Pulling the joint Wilson hadn't confiscated out of his pocket and pairing it with the lighter he'd stolen from her while she was trying to hump his cane, he lit up.

"_That was _wonderful, _Greg," she purred, caressing his chest. "You've still got it."_

_He smirked, savoring the comedown, the tangled sheets, the sweat cooling on his body. Nothing would ever top sex with Stacy. _

"_When did you get the new bike?"_

"_A few months ago," he replied. He smirked again. "Got Wilson to lend me the cash." _

_Stacy laughed that playful southern laugh of hers and lay down next to him, close but not too close. _

"_I like what you've done with the place," she said, glancing around carelessly. "It's very you." _

"_You mean it's disorganized and chaotic?" _

_She nudged him. "Still can't take a compliment."_

"_Still think I care about interior decorating."_

_Stacy mock-glared at him just long enough to end the round of banter. She turned on to her left side and put her face in the pillow, inhaling deeply._

"_God, I've missed this smell," she said. _

_House had a tart reply ready when he saw the look on her face. She was getting serious again. He needed another ten minutes at least but if she wanted to get a head start, who was he to argue…_

"_Have you?" he asked._

"_I have," she said, voice dropping to a sultry register. _

"_What else have you missed?" he asked, his eyes gleaming too. He knew the subtext of this conversation by heart. Maybe he only needed five minutes._

_She picked up his left hand. "I've missed this." She kissed it._

_She ran her hand along his chest and bent down to kiss it too. "And this." _

_She moved up to caress his scratchy neck. "I remember this being smoother," she said, kissing it anyway. _

_Her hand traveled south, eyes shining. "And this is even better than I remembered it." _

Starting to feel the weather, House took one more hit and put the rest of the joint back in his pocket. He sat for a moment, feeling the drug relax him, and closed his eyes. He was so close to feeling good. Almost normal. Almost. If he just sat for a while…

Stacy drifted back in to his head and he snapped his eyes open quickly.

Reaching for his cell phone, he stood and walked around to the front of the building while he dialed a cab company. Blame it on his memory, he did recall what she had mumbled through his lips to the driver earlier. Five minutes they said.

He put his cell phone away in favor of his Vicodin, popping one into his mouth and sucking on it. He swayed slightly, head spinning, a silly grin plastered on his face. Wilson had invested in some good weed.

When the cab arrived, he stuffed himself in the back seat without falling over and giggled stupidly before he sobered up and directed the driver to the nearest all-nite pancake house.

He couldn't go home right now. The bed would still smell like her.


	3. Work

**Title: **Five Ways Out of Hell  
**Author: **sy dedalus  
**Rating: **T  
**Pairing:** House/broken heart  
**Warnings: **Drinking, sex with strangers, general Housian masochism  
**Summary: **House's five ways out of hell following "Need to Know." Couldn't keep my paws off this one.  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Glad you guys liked the last chapter. This one isn't as symmetrical or powerful, but I hope it works anyway. :)

**Warning: **More of the same illicit drug use on House's part. Space aliens and sausages too. Watch out.

* * *

**3: Work**

House stuffed the Big Breakfast Sampler into his gullet without stopping for breath. How had he managed to forget what a succulent culinary additive syrup was? It had started on his pancakes and gradually conquered the scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, and hash browns. And it wasn't even real maple syrup—just some synthetic crap, the same way all of the food he was packing in was synthetic crap—but it tasted so good. Who knew food could be this good?

He was down to one sausage link and a couple of hash browns before he sat back, surveyed the damage, and realized he hadn't smoked marijuana in a long, long time if he didn't remember how delicious the munchie stage was. He belched and rubbed his protruding stomach contentedly. Nothing like cheap, greasy drunk food to fill the munchie void.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back and was happy for three and a half minutes. Sleepy, full, content: yes, he was happy. He might have fallen asleep in the booth if the waitress hadn't returned to question him about a soda refill. He shook his head. She placed the check on the table and left, and he groaned and shook himself.

He felt good. He felt like he could sleep. But he couldn't go home. Not yet. Too soon.

Couldn't go to Wilson's. Wilson had been more and more moody and catty since Stacy had arrived. Trouble with the wife, House knew that road, but Wilson didn't have to take it out on him.

Wilson and his mixed messages. Don't do her! Wait, you did her and now you're letting her get away? You idiot!

"What_ happened in Baltimore?" Wilson asked again when the elevator cleared and they were finally alone. _

"_We almost went out to dinner," House said. _

_Wilson turned to him and said directly, "House. You don't iron your shirts for almost going out to dinner. Something happened." _

_House couldn't keep it to himself. He tried hard not to smile, but he was so happy. He was actually radiant with happiness. Radiant._

"_She came on to me," House said, fighting the smile. _

"_House," Wilson admonished in that tone that said 'you're hiding something and I know it and I'm going to find out because I know you can't not tell me.'_

"_She kissed me," he said. He wasn't blushing. He wasn't. He wasn't blushing in front of Wilson about this. He wasn't._

"_Kissed you?" Wilson said. "Kissed you like…what? Like peck on the cheek, 'you're such a sweetheart Greg, I really adore you,' or like tonsil hockey?"_

"_Tonsil hockey?" House said as if the words tasted sour. "Nobody actually says tonsil hockey any more." _

_Wilson did that thing he did when he had discovered something he considered extraordinary. His eyes widened, his mouth opened, he pointed index fingers in excitement. _

"_She did, didn't she?" Wilson said. He didn't need confirmation. "She did!" _

_House couldn't say anything. He was smiling too widely. _

Of course she did. He tried to put it out of his head as he paid the check and called another cab. Time to pick up his bike and go where he always went when he needed to sort himself out: work.

Half an hour later he was parking in that oh-so-special blue lined spot and removing his cane from its holster. He wouldn't park here—he didn't think of himself like that—but…he could only walk so far.

He slipped past the night shift—what did they care that he was coming in at four-thirty in the morning?—and up to his office without incident. SuperMom was stable and his brood had gone home for the night. He had his kingdom all to himself.

He whistled "Hail to the Chief" as he stepped out on the balcony to smoke the rest of the joint. Wilson's office was dark across the way. He'd gone home for once. Or maybe he was out with one of his Debbies.

Whatever. He didn't care. Wilson's self-righteousness was getting really old, especially when his own love life was so screwed up. (But, House was reminded as he held in the smoke, he had access to some really good weed.)

But whatever. He didn't need anyone right now. He was full, sleepy, buzzed, and alone.

Flicking the dead roach over the balcony, he went back inside and dug out his Nintendo. He settled into the yellow chair, starting to feel very comfortable as the second high came on, and booted the video game. Alien Force III. He liked this one. He was working now.

Twenty minutes later he'd conquered Earth again and turned the game off, slowly slipping into sleep.


	4. Pain

**Title: **Five Ways Out of Hell  
**Author: **sy dedalus  
**Rating: **T  
**Pairing:** House/broken heart  
**Warnings: **Drinking, sex with strangers, general Housian masochism  
**Summary: **House's five ways out of hell following "Need to Know." Couldn't keep my paws off this one.  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Thanks for the reviews! I'm trying to get this out before the new episode tonight. There's one more chapter left (five ways out five chapters), but it will have to wait till tomorrow. :)

* * *

**4: Pain**

"House!"

Unwillingly, House cracked an eye open. Cuddy. Standing _inside _his office?

"What?" he said.

She wasn't wearing her usual death glare this morning. Instead, she was concerned. Very concerned. He recognized that concern: that was infarction-era concern. That was Stacy-just-dumped-me concern. Hadn't she figured out that he wasn't into women who pitied him? He thought all the things he did to piss her off might be a hint…

She was holding back questions, he could tell. And she'd taken just a hair too long to respond.

"I'm working," he said, not bothering to move for her. "Go away."

"Your patient is stable," she said softly. "You don't have to be here today."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, indicating he'd like to get back to what he'd been doing.

Cuddy—he couldn't believe this—Cuddy actually squatted next to him.

"House," she said as if she were about to give him very bad news and wanted to make sure he'd be able to handle it, "are you okay?"

House sniffed. "I was fine until you showed up," he said, but it lacked the bite he usually directed toward Cuddy.

She paused again, considering her words, choosing carefully. "You smell like a bar. That's fine. That's understandable. But…" She looked into his eyes, asking the question again. _Are you okay?_ "Why are you here?"

House rolled his eyes. "Because I work here," he said. "I thought that'd be obvious even to you."

She gave him another one of those enormously, nauseatingly sympathetic glances.

"I don't need to talk," he spat, "and I don't need anyone to hold my hand. Goodbye."

Cuddy took the cue this time, but her gaze lingered, still soft, still concerned. "You know where I'll be," she said.

She left and as he was rolling his eyes again, he caught a pitying look from Cameron through the glass wall of his office.

Oh. That's why Cuddy had come to see him. She was going to report back to Cameron and then they'd…whatever. He should've known.

Cameron held his gaze for a moment, then looked down.

House snarled to himself. That was it. Sheets that smelled like Stacy were better than pitying glances and soft words.

He got to his feet, cane in hand, made sure he had everything he needed, and left for the parking lot.

"_Greg," she said softly, coming up to him as he limped toward the physical therapy gym, "I heard about what happened. I'm sorry."_

"_Sorry does me a whole hell of a lot of good, doesn't it?" House growled. "Sorry makes it all better. No limp, no fights, no nothing."_

_She was still walking with him. He glanced over at her. _

"_Why aren't you out living it up with your gal pal?" he asked angrily. "Or is this her way of checking on me? Making sure the poor, depressed cripple doesn't hurt himself?"_

"_I'm here because I want to be here," Cuddy said. "Just because you hate it, the world doesn't automatically hate you back." _

"_Are you coming on to me?" House said. _

_Cuddy glared at him. Just as quickly, her expression softened again. "If you need to talk…"_

"_I'll come running to you as fast as I can," House said nastily. He stopped, hand on the gym door and stared hard at her._

_She took the hint and backed up a step, but before she left, she said, "I'm here for you."_

"_Aren't I special," House said, pushing the door in and leaving her behind him._

House sped past the city limits sign, feeling the bike hug the road and his body hug the bike. It felt good. It hurt. The dealer had customized it for him so he wouldn't have to use his right leg to shift gears or brake, but having to hug his leg to the bike as he sped through turns made it unhappy. Exactly what he wanted. A rush of feeling.

He was unconcerned when he saw flashing lights in his mirrors. He'd expected it, ignoring the speed limit as deliberately as he had been.

He pulled over on the shoulder and killed the engine, left foot planted on the gravel. License, registration, insurance. He had all of that. He gathered it and hoped the cop would get out of his car and get it over with before he needed to stand up. He hadn't taken a Vicodin since he'd stood outside Coke Chick's apartment this morning. He wanted to feel it. He was feeling it.

At length the officer opened the car door and began to approach him. By then, House was more than feeling it and he was much more than cranky.

"License and registration."

House handed them over. The cop was very young. Very very young.

"Do you know why I stopped you?" the cop asked.

"You had nothing better to do," House suggested with a sneer. His leg was really starting to ache.

The cop narrowed his eyes but attempted to remain professional. "Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Fast enough that you dropped your donut," House said. He nodded to the powdered sugar dusting the cop's dark blue uniform shirt.

The cop looked down at his shirt and clenched his jaw. "Sir, insulting a police officer is classified as assault under New Jersey state law," he fired off.

"Good to know," House said cheekily. "Can we speed this up? I've got things to do."

The cop narrowed his eyes even further. He was about to go back to his cruiser when House could no longer stand the ache of straddling the bike and began to pull his cane out of its holster.

The action wasn't especially quick, but the cop was young enough to let a biker who was insulting him make him jumpy.

"Drop it!" he yelled, gun in his hands before House knew what was happening.

"It's just a—"

"I said drop it!"

House looked tiredly at him, pausing before he spoke. "Hey, moron," he said, "did you not see the great big wheelchair on my license plate? It's just a cane."

"Sir, drop your weapon and step away from the vehicle."

House shook his head, laughing. "You've got to be kidding."

The cop was absolutely serious. "I repeat, drop your weapon and step away from the vehicle."

House had sensed all along that this kid wasn't messing around, but only now did he heed that intuition. He let go of the cane, quickly flipped the kick stand with his left foot, and slowly drug his leg across the bike, one hand on the left handlebar, the other on the seat. Once he had both feet on the ground, he slowly turned around, right hand replacing his left hand on the left handlebar, until he was facing the cop.

"Step away from the vehicle," the cop demanded.

"I can't," House said.

"Sir, step away from the vehicle or I will have to resort to force," the cop said, gun still drawn.

"Are you deaf?" House said. "I. Can't."

"This is your last warning."

House rolled his eyes, sighed angrily, and making the bike take his weight, stepped forward with his left foot. Quickly, his right foot joined it, but with nothing to balance his weight and his leg already tired and hurting, he fell with a sharp cry, catching himself with his hands before he could hit the gravel.

The cop jumped and pulled the trigger, aiming for House's left shoulder. Nothing happened. He realized when he saw House land and push himself into a sitting position—clearly non-threatening—that he hadn't taken the safety off. He was immensely relieved.

House glared at the cop, trying to keep pain off of his face, and watched the young man shakily holster the gun. He rolled his eyes again and without thinking, reached into his jacket pocket for his pills.

The cop had the gun back out before House could say anything.

"Remove your hand!"

"Relax," House said, taking his pills out of his pocket. He thumbed the cap off and shook one into his hand.

"Relinquish those drugs," the cop said.

House popped the pill into his mouth, replaced the cap, and offered the bottle. The cop took it quickly, gun still in his right hand.

"It's pain medication," House said. "Prescribed to me. For my leg. Which you just made me fall on."

"This is a narcotic," the cop said.

"So you _can _read," House said. "Good for you. It's mine. It's legally prescribed to me. Give it back."

The cop studied him. "Sir, you have given me reason to believe that you are under the influence of narcotics."

"Duh," House said. "Legally under the influence."

The cop wasn't listening. House rolled his eyes, muttered something to himself about trigger happy cops, and sighed again.

"Look," he said. "I was speeding. I insulted you. You thought I had a weapon. All right. Go around and look. It's a cane. Notice the guy in the wheelchair on the license plate while you're over there. I'm having a bad day. I'm not trying to hurt you." He gestured to his body. "I can't even get up."

The lack of satire in House's voice convinced the cop to put his gun away. Carefully, he stepped back to read the license plate. He glanced quickly back at House in case House was trying pull something. No. He quickly stepped to the right side of House's motorcycle, glancing back at House again, and saw that it was in fact just a cane. House sat there, his face saying 'I told you so' and beginning to express the pain he was in.

The cop glanced from him to it and back again.

"Do you need this to get up?" the cop asked.

"Yeah," House said.

The cop nodded to himself and returned to the place he'd been, collecting House's license, registration, and insurance card from the ground. He went to the cruiser and returned with a citation pad. House ground his teeth but said nothing as the cop wrote out a citation.

He handed House a citation for speeding and not wearing a helmet and returned House's cards and pill bottle. When he didn't move to retrieve House's cane, House looked up at him. Realizing this was the cop's revenge, House gritted his teeth again and silently put the bottle, cards, and citation in his jacket pocket. Great.

They stared at each other for another moment before the cop offered him a hand. Knowing he had no other options, House took it and let the man help him up.

"Watch your mouth," the cop warned as soon as House was supporting himself with the bike again. House sneered, but his back was to the cop.

He heard the cop walk away and painfully lifted his right leg over the seat. Dammit, but this did feel good. He wanted it to hurt. For once he did get what he wanted.

The cruiser's lights were still flashing when House cranked the engine. Muttering to himself about stupid pigs, House drove away.


	5. Nothing

**Title: **Five Ways Out of Hell  
**Author: **sy dedalus  
**Rating: **T  
**Pairing:** House/broken heart  
**Warnings: **Drinking, sex with strangers, general Housian masochism  
**Summary: **House's five ways out of hell following "Need to Know." Couldn't keep my paws off this one.  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

Re: "Distractions" (no spoilers). You know why I love this show? Cause no matter what I do to House in fic, the show's writers will always do more. That just doesn't ever happen. What a great show. I love it.

Here's the end of this piece. It's not my usual mixed-but-at-least-semi-happy ending because I don't think that's where House is right now. I don't think that's where Wilson is. So…here's this. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate it. Can't say that enough. Thank you!

* * *

**5: Nothing**

House returned to the hospital, leg aching horribly. But that wasn't why he'd gone back. No. He knew if he didn't go home now and face his bed, his sheets, her pillow—_the _pillow, he would be in the fire for a long time. He could do it, but he needed some supplies first.

Limping heavily, he parked himself in front of the pharmacy and rattled off a list of drugs to a surprised pharmacist. The regular guy was off this morning. He produced a prescription pad and wrote them out for her. Stealing would be easier but not with his leg screaming like it was. He waited while she filled the prescriptions.

"I thought Cuddy sent you home."

Wilson. Of course Wilson. Who else but Wilson? Putting in his clinic hours like a good boy. House didn't even turn around.

"Cuddy's not the boss of me."

"Well, I know that," Wilson said. He walked up to stand next to House and nodded at the counter. "Early for a refill," he said.

"Not getting a refill," House said.

"What are you getting?"

"Idiot stuff," House replied. "Things for idiots. Especially idiots who hang out on rooftops."

Wilson tensed but didn't take the bait. Instead, he asked, "What happened to your hand?"

House glanced down at his hands, not knowing what Wilson was talking about. His right hand was red, scratched, and covered in small lines of dried blood. He hadn't even noticed.

"Bully," House said. "Knocked me off my bike and stole my candy."

Wilson stared at him, waiting for clarification. House glanced at him, saw the anticipation, and offered nothing.

"You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?" Wilson asked.

"You wanna see what she's getting for me?" House asked. "Do a little snooping? Go ahead."

Hands in his pockets, Wilson rocked back and forth on his heels. "I came up one short yesterday," he said. "I'd ask, but I know it's already gone."

House tilted his head slightly. Wilson knew he was right. No need to provide confirmation.

"Dr. House," the pharmacist said, offering him a bag.

House took it and offered it to Wilson. Wilson glanced at it, at him, and walked away without a word.

"_Hey, House," Wilson said, entering the apartment, "I heard about—"_

_He didn't get to finish before House cut him off by vomiting copiously on the hardwood floor. He choked, spat, and leaned back on the couch, a half-empty bottle of bourbon in his lap._

_Wilson stopped short, face twisting in disgust. "How long have you been drinking?" he asked._

"_Long enough," House answered. _

"_How many pills did you take?"_

"_Doesn't matter," House said, taking a long pull of bourbon. He nodded dizzily at the floor. "Not the first time." _

_The stain on his sweat pants spoke to that. _

"_When is she coming for her stuff?" Wilson asked, sitting down in a chair next to the couch and as far from the puke as he could get. _

"_When I go to PT tomorrow," House answered. _

_Wilson nodded. He looked to the ceiling and around at the walls. "You going to stay here?" _

"_Six months left on the lease," House said. "See how long I can stand it." _

"_Is she coming back tonight?"_

_House shook his head. "Went to a hotel." _

_Wilson nodded and went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. _

_House looked it at it and then at him. "Thirsty?"_

_Wilson shrugged. "It's your binge. Any idea how long you'll be at it?"_

"_What kind of stupid question is that?" House asked. _

"_Just trying to plan my week," Wilson answered. _

House parked his bike next to the vette. Side by side, they clashed horribly. Orange and red. Hideous.

He let himself in, locked the door, and went straight to the bedroom. He didn't look at the sheets. He didn't inhale the air.

Undressing without care, he dropped his shirt on top of a condom wrapper, propped his cane against the night table and sat down to unzip his back pack. With the right mix of sedatives, he could sleep for hours.

He arranged the bottles according to his needs and opened one of the table's drawers to fetch a flask and a pre-packaged dose of Ativan. One controlled-release sleeper went down his throat with a swallow of vodka and before he could let himself think about it, the syringe was digging into his hip muscle.

He could smell her perfume as he injected the drug. Still on the pillow next to him. Well. That didn't matter now.

He tossed the syringe in the open drawer and took a deep breath. His back and leg liked the feel of sheets. Less than a minute.

He couldn't change for her. Nothing changes. Mark was a guy who would always be willing to change. And if he didn't…she deserved what she got. Now she would be the one mourning the lost relationship. He'd gotten out with the perfect excuse. I'm doing it for you, not me, honey, because I love you so much. I just want you to be happy. It was true but it was also a load of crap.

"_You've got to be miserable."_

So what if Wilson was right. So what if he wasn't right. What did it matter. He did his job. He fixed people. He wasn't required to be happy while he did it. He didn't need to be happy. He didn't need anything.

Nothing. Nothing was the best thing he had. He needed nothing.

Nothing but to sleep right now. Just to sleep.

END


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